


a certain kind of dark

by wearethewitches



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Canon, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Ron Weasley, Auror Training, Bigotry & Prejudice, Detectives, Female Harry Potter, Gen, Illegal Activities, Indian Harry Potter, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione Granger, Missing Persons, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Post-War, Spies & Secret Agents, Squibs, Terrorism, Wizarding Culture (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2019-10-06 01:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17336282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: Mere months away from being a fully-fledged Auror, Hari Potter is assigned a cold case that isn't as cold as it seems. Where is young Delphini Rowle? What happened to the previous Auror squad investigating her disappearance? Who are the mysterious figures watching Hari and her colleagues?There's something wrong in Wizarding Britain and Hari is determined to figure out what.





	1. Chapter 1

The apartment is dark. Hari slips through the kitchen, rubbing her eyes of crust as she opens her fridge, blearily taking out the butter, eggs and bacon. She works on muscle-memory alone, somehow not managing to burn herself or overdo breakfast, only waking up when Ron stumbles in to make them both tea.

“Morning,” he mumbles.

“Hey,” Hari grunts in reply. “Mione?”

“Work, already,” Ron says, tugging a piece of paper from beneath a magnet. “Where are your glasses? She left a note...right. That's for me.”

“Lost ‘em,” Hari replies, manually buttering their toast before piling two plates’ worth with fried eggs and bacon slices. She sits down at the dining table with Ron, who gives her tea while she slides over his plate. They eat and drink in silence – for Hari, the dim apartment not getting any more clear, even when she rubs at her eyes.

“Want me to summon them?” Ron asks her, but she shakes her head, wand sliding out of its holster to aim at the bridge of her nose.

“ _Oculus sanentur_ ,” she mumbles, the verbal spell taking affect with a flash of silver. Ron shakes his head.

“That’ll wear off.”

“I know it will.”

The morning goes as it usually does. Hermione Granger has already woken up at an especially-early hour that involves the words _five o’clock in the morning_  in an attempt to get more work done in the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Her best friends and roommates, Hari Potter and Ron Weasley, both wake up at the same time over an hour later in an attempt to be semi-awake at seven AM, when the two of them will apparate to the Ministry of Magic to begin their shift in the Auror Department.

“Only a couple months left,” Ron mumbles to himself.

Hari shakes her head. “That’s if we pass.”

Ron snorts. “We fought in the War. You’re _Hari Potter_. Like they’re going to pass either of us up,” he scoffs, but there’s a tinge of worry and Hari knows why. The Auror Corps is _never_ going to refuse Hari Potter, the Girl-Who-Lived and Woman-Who-Conquered, but Ron Weasley? Well, it’s been insinuated more than once that he’s hanging off her cloak-tails.

“Daffort said we’d be split up into teams for this last leg,” Hari says, offering, “Why not go in a different team to me? What if we’re not put together once we’re working in the Auror Office – it would be a bit disconcerting if we hadn’t any practice being apart.”

Ron flashes an uneasy grin. “Right. ‘Course, mate – Mione would say something about being attached at the hip.”

“Too right she would,” Hari finishes her tea with a shake of her head. “I’m off for a shower before we leg-it to work.”

“Alright. I’ll make lunch up.”

“Don’t bother, I’ll patch us both food from the cafeteria,” Hari pats his arm as she passes, off to the shared bathroom.

“Cool. You don’t mind if I get that extra-large coffee, right?”

The life of Hari Potter is simple. She goes to work with Ron – avoiding the waiting photographers willing to snap a picture of the famous _Woman-Who-Conquered_ in the Ministry Atrium – and signs in with a tap of her wand, her chicken-scratch signature scrawling its way across the waiting parchment. Friends and colleagues are bid a good morning, so long as the caffeine has kicked in.

Ron immediately swings his feet up onto his desk, leaning back on two legs of his chair as he summons his report from last week – approved with a Junior Auror Supervisor’s bright red _E_ stamp. Conversely, Hari pulls a foot up, tucking it beneath her knee as she gets cosy. Their desks are next to each other, the small office leaving them about a foot between them – enough room for Seamus to squeeze past to sit behind them with Vicky Frobisher, their own little seventeen year-old baby of the class.

“Morning,” he greets them.

“Morning,” Ron and Hari chorus in return, before Josie Jackdaw truly _collapses_ into her seat on Hari’s left. Josie, unlike Vicky with her certain calm and long brown beaded braids like an African princess’, is a red-faced, excitable witch who can _usually_ tell when she’s being too loud – though it’s hit or miss with her, sometimes.

“Oh my god, you would not believe the traffic!” The blonde witch whines, her Minnesotan accent on full blast and as strangely captivating as foreign accents always are to Hari. “I couldn’t get any of those nice strawberry muffins for breakfast, it was _so_ bad.”

Vicky snorts over her _O-_ stamped report, tucking the paper under her lip. “Apparate in. You need the practice, if you want to do it right.”

“I can apparate if I want,” Josie says, mulish, “I just like driving. It’s harder than apparating – I don’t want to forget how to do _that_. I spent money getting my license.”

“There’s nothing wrong with driving,” Hari says neutrally, siding with Josie, who flashes her a gap-toothed smile.

“Female Aurors have to stick together,” she replies, but her head is still resting sideways on her desk. Hari can see her report beneath her cheek.

“So loyal,” Vicky teases.

Seamus puts a hand up, “Oi, don’t forget – we’re top of the Junior Divisions! We’re going to be getting recruited by other departments, mark my words!”

“He’s right,” Ron chimes in. “Hermione was getting dozens of letters from all floors of the Ministry _before_ she took her NEWTs.”

Hari grins with him, remembering Hermione’s flushed, embarrassed glow that month. She’d replied to each and every letter with personalised statements, until the repeat-queries came and she made up a standardised rejection. The sixth-year Hogwarts intern their best friend employed over winter break a year later was practically her secretary – they were organising important and some not-so-important mail for the entire duration of their internship.

Seamus waffles on about how the other departments will want to sweep them up and Ron adds a story about being accosted on the street by a member of the Duelling Guild, outright begging for him to join their ranks instead. Hari knows it’s not an outright lie – they _were_ from the Duelling Guild, but unfortunately they were a little more interested in Ginny’s talents than Ron’s, enough to address her by name; they talked to their drunken group as a _whole_ , anyway, before realising they were as equally pissed.

“Alright! Enough chit-chat!” Captain Daffort calls out, effectively silencing the room as everyone straightens in their seats. Hari is quick to glance at her report, nose wrinkling at the red _A_ for _Acceptable_ as their supervisor continues. “We’re coming to the end of your tenure as Junior Aurors, as you all well know. You’ve been decent enough candidates-”

“Decent? We’re bloody brilliant!” interrupts Gowen from where he sits in front of Ron, grinning.

Daffort shakes his head shortly, but the wizard is smiling slightly. “You’ve been decent enough candidates-” he repeats “-but you all still have one more chance to raise your average, before the final cut. The Auror Corps only accepts the top sixty percent of their graduating classes. Of those in the forty percent, ten percent will probably be picked up by other adjacent departments and another ten percent will be taken in by the DMLE.”

Hari and many of the eleven others in her squad nod along, knowing this. For the last year, Daffort had been drilling in their heads what they had to get – what kind of future Junior Aurors, Second Class, could expect compared to simple first years or _First Class_ ’, as they’re called in the hierarchy. Only fifty percent of First Class’ graduated to Second Class, the other half either not making it or being deposited in the Reserves – basically being let go with a stamp on their record saying they’re only to be recruited in dire times or not again for another five years. Hari had made the cut, not with ease, but not with much difficulty, either.

 _It’s been harder, this year,_ she thinks with a bite of her lip, chewing nervously. Ron had been getting _E_ ’s and the occasional _O_ , while people like Vicky and Seamus had been getting steady _O’_ s, with the occasional dip into _P_ and once – on Seamus’ part – _T._ Hari had no idea about Josie, but for all she talked randomly, she never quite dipped into her personal life or the scores Daffort had been giving her.

The red, pulsing _A_ on her report on a common theft she’d dealt with last week mocks her, now.

“The bottom twenty percent will be Reserves for a minimum of two years,” Daffort speaks, leaning back against his desk at the front of the three rows of four. There’s a board at their backs, double-sided and acting as a marker between two different classes. A minor silencing ward ensures no-one is disturbed by the other class.

“Summer Intake is coming up and I expect the vast majority of you to be serving in the Corps as Ranked Aurors,” Daffort’s eyes span across the class and briefly, his eyes meet Hari’s. A moment passes, before he continues. “Frobisher, tell me what classifies as a ‘cold case’.”

“…an investigation that has died or otherwise become deadweight. There are no new leads. It’s an unsolved criminal investigation that is awaiting new evidence to push the case forwards.” Vicky answers slowly, but surely, asking her own question afterwards. “Are we being assigned cold cases, sir?”

“Indeed,” Daffort replies, wand already flicking. Behind him, eight beige files of varying thickness float upwards. “Teams of three. Move the desks around.”

“Yes, sir!” the dozen Junior Aurors reply, standing up and picking partners. Ron and Hari automatically drift together, before Ron pauses and puts a hand up.

“Wait, remember…”

Hari’s eyes dim briefly and something in her aches sharply. “Yeah, sure- it’s fine.” Turning around, Hari finds Seamus heading his usual partners, Lilly Moon and Bertrand ‘Robin’ Hoodwinked. “Seamus!” she calls out, disturbing the usual flow of the room enough that Hari realises they need a third. “Seamus, want to partner up?”

Seamus looks at her, incredulous, looking to Ron. “Trouble in paradise, Hari?”

“Nah, mate, just figure we need a change,” Hari gives a lop-sided grin, “Can’t work with him forever, yeah? Want to mix stuff up?”

Seamus looks back at Lilly and Robin, who shrug and call over Gowen. At the front of the class, Daffort gives everyone amused looks as the status quo is shaken up.

“About time,” he says, giving his own approval. “Hurry it up, though. Teams, desks – stop tarrying!”

“I’m with you two!” Vicky demands, rather than offers. Before she’s even finishes talking, she’s moved their desks around, moving Josie’s and Ron’s together with room for one more. Similarly, Lilly takes initiative, arranging her own team’s desks in the corner opposing theirs, next to Ron’s.

“This is…different,” mutters the automatic third to Ron’s team, one of Vicky’s usual partners when they team up like this. Hari hasn’t talked to them much – which is a little strange, as Hari usually makes a point of befriending other witches and wizards from the Indian Subcontinent in an attempt to practice her Hindi. She knows their first name is Tamar, but not their second name, because for all Daffort's linguistic capabilities, he’s never been able to pronounce it properly.

“You’ll have to make up new team names,” Daffort then says, making groans come from various members of the squad. “Just kidding. Sort out who’s team leader, who’s defence and who’s back-up, then team leader can assign the name of your group. Remember to change the board.”

“Yes, sir,” they say, before Daffort levitates two folders to each trio.

“Have at ‘em,” he says, “You have two weeks before I start getting prissy.” Then, without much further ado, their supervisor walks out of the room.

“I’ll be back-up,” Seamus volunteers, chatter breaking out around the room. Hari plucks a file out of the air, Vicky doing similarly with the other as they sit. Seamus is sat at the base of the _T-_ shape, Hari sitting opposite Vicky with a whole view of the room, her back to a wall. “So…who’s team leader? You’re both usually in charge of your own teams.”

Hari and Vicky look at each other.

“…I could step down,” Hari offers, cringing at the thought – but Vicky is _good._ Hari knows she is. Hari could step down, she _totally_ could step down…

“Or,” Vicky wiggles her file, “we take a case each. Co-leaders, heading our own cases…and we could be called Team Cake.”

“Weird name, but okay,” Hari cricks her neck, motioning to the chalkboard behind Daffort’s desk. “Want to change the board?”

“Seamus can do it,” Vicky replies, “he likes the board.”

“Oh yeah,” Seamus gets to his feet, rushing over to the board and manually wiping it down, avoiding using his wand. Hari stifles her laugh, remembering how he’d blown up the chalk a few months ago – he’d been _covered_ in powder. The witches watch as he writes out _TEAM CAKE_ in capital letters, writing their roles and names below it.

“ _No!_ ” Josie exclaims loudly, standing up. “Victoria Frobisher, you stole my name!”

“Did not,” Vicky immediately replies, grinning. “It’s _our_ team name, Jackdaw. You should have been quicker.”

“Bitch,” Josie grumps.

Hari shakes her head at their antics, tapping her wand against the Accountability Index on the front of her cold case. Her signature appears below the short list of names, the date following with an open-ended hyphen, waiting for her time to either close the case or hand it over to another Auror. Opening the file to the first page, immediately, Hari’s blood runs cold. Her expression must have been telling, because Vicky abstains from opening her own as Seamus returns to the grouping of desks.

“Potter?”

“Put some privacy wards up,” Hari mutters, eyes glued to the pages. There isn’t much in the file – an incident report, a follow-up and a retraction from the original witness who reported the crime. Other notes and forms. Once she feels the familiar Auror-credited privacy wards be put into place, she lays the file on her desk for Vicky and Seamus to see.

“What kind of case is it?” Vicky questions as Hari raises a magical pinboard up from the edge of her desk, keying her teammates in so they can see.

Hari’s expression turns grim. “A missing child.”

Under normal circumstances, this case would have been solved within a month of being reported. Missing children – magical children, especially – are higher priority than dark wizards, thieves and criminals. A whole division within the Auror Department should have been working on this case, not three Junior Aurors who aren’t even properly _Ranked_ yet.

“Fucking hell,” Seamus mutters, “those are never cold cases. How long-”

“Over a year, according to this file,” Hari says, finding the biro and cardstock that Hermione had gifted her. She rapidly writes down all the relevant information, sticking it to her board with magic. “On February eighth, Walburga Rowle reported her cousin’s daughter missing. The girl was apparently called Delphini Rowle and she was only a year old, born the previous March.”

“Apparently?”

“Apparently, because Walburga retracted her statement later, after Aurors began investigating,” Hari pens the words _RETRACTED FEB 15 th _in big letters, making a timeline off to one side. “In the investigation of Euphemia Rowle’s home, however, there were no signs a child had lived there for at least several years.”

“So…are we looking for a toddler or a child?” Seamus tries to understand, frowning.

“A toddler, according to the notes here,” Hari purses her lips, pausing in her hurried writing to actually look through the next few pages. “It looks like they were debating? There’s unofficial notation here.”

“Why did they stop looking?” Vicky asks, eyes locked on the file. Hari skims quickly, knowing she’ll have to go over this better when she’s had time to parse the basics for her team.

“Well…with the retraction from Walburga Rowle, they had no reason to keep investigating – not so obviously, at least. They were still worried. It looks like they were waiting for permission from the higher-ups to do surveillance?” Hari squints, the writing blurring. It takes her a minute to realise her charm has already worn off. Sighing, she forces herself to stop, looking in Vicky’s direction. _Yep. Smudges._ “It must not have come.”

“Where are your glasses?” Seamus questions, quickly, obviously recognising her _I can’t see a bloody thing_ face. “ _Accio Hari’s glasses!_ ”

From beside her knee, Hari hears a quiet smashing sound and sighs.

“Of course they were in my desk,” she mutters, opening the drawer and firing off a silent _Reparo_. There’s a quiet tinkle of glass and metal, before Hari attempts to find them in what is likely a desk full of sharp quills and who knows what else. “What’s your case, Vicky?”

Vicky clears her throat as Hari puts her glasses on, “If you’d just give me a minute.”

“Sure,” Hari nods, before spreading out her own case file in a line on her desk, motioning Seamus over so he can see. After a short shuffle, the two of them start to understand the cold case in front of them.

The previous Auror to work on this was a witch with several underlings, it seemed. Hari noted to Seamus that there were over four different styles of handwriting – Seamus then proceeded to point out another three.

“Half-squad and a commanding officer, maybe?” Seamus ponders. “Who took Accountability?”

“I can’t tell you,” Hari mutters in reminder, checking. _Mirabelle Krasinski._ “I don’t recognise them, at least.”

“Odd,” Seamus shifts through some papers, flipping one over to reveal a still picture. He peers at it. “Hari- Hari, look, in the background.”

Hari looks.

“…that’s Thorfinn Rowle,” Hari breathes, shocked, picking the page up. “The Death Eater.”

“Know him personally?” Seamus questions.

“Hermione modified his memory at one point,” Hari licks her lips, unsticking the photo from the file. A shadow through the picture prompts her to turn it around, revealing a hand-written note.

_Taken by squib next-door neighbour pre-Battle of Hogwarts. #1_

“There are more!” Seamus exclaimed and Hari looks up in time to see an explosion of photographs – emptying out what must have been an undetectable extension charm in the folded edge. Seamus scrambles to collect the photos, Vicky only barely looking up at the commotion.

“What’s going on?”

“Information!” Hari says, before remembering that she is a _witch,_ for Merlin’s sake. Sitting up, she organises the photographs into a pile, thankful for their remedial paperwork management lesson at the start of the year. The photo in her hand wiggles, jumping to the top of the pile.

“I think they must have gotten that surveillance after all,” Seamus says, picking up the pile of photographs and looking at the top four before pausing. “These are muggle, though.”

“Legally, we can only submit non-magical evidence if it’s appropriately tagged and bagged by the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office,” Vicky says, putting down her file. “Where’s their serial number?”

Seamus checks, looking around and even looking at the back of the photos. Hari, meanwhile, gets a bit more paranoid than perhaps the situation deserves and casts a few of her own wards around the table.

 _Or maybe this is exactly the amount of paranoia needed,_ Hari thinks, looking at the photographs and getting a hunch.

“I think it’s illegal evidence,” Hari says aloud. Seamus freezes. “This is a cold case – no supposed missing child case is a _cold case_ , it’s not right. They’d have the long-term investigative unit on it. They buried it. They buried this case for some reason.”

“This cold case is twenty-three years old,” Vicky adds, nails scraping over her file. “Add us to the Accountability Index – we need all eyes on this, Potter. We need to know the managerial details.”

“That’s _triplicate paperwork_ ,” Seamus mutters, but doesn’t complain when Hari extends the column her name is in, leaving them room to sign their own names.

Vicky clears her throat, “I’m going to do as much as I can for this case, but twenty-three years is a long time. I’ll focus on it for the next week, alone – call on me if you want help with that one.”

“Same here, mate,” Hari replies. “If you need any help-”

“This is a hate-crime against a vampire from nearly two dozen years ago,” Vicky interrupts, shaking her head. “I’ll be fine. You focus on that kid.”

“Got it,” Hari nods decisively, pulling her chair into the desk more, leg pressing up against Seamus’. “Let’s look at these pictures and try to figure out what they were looking for.” 


	2. Chapter 2

The _tap-tap-tap-tap_ of a muggle typewriter echoes continually in the quiet of the bullpen. Hari edges around the edge of the room, hyper-aware of the many, many workers and the scritch-scratch of their quills. Near the back, referencing a thick book, is her best friend. Hari can see from the way she’s bent over the paper, spare hand idly typing away as her other flips pages, that Hermione is perfectly relaxed.

She feels bad, knowing her appearance here will disrupt Hermione’s day.

“Excuse me,” Hari clears her throat, dozens of heads twisting her way sharply in surprise, someone actually falling off their chair – it’s the problem with wearing Auror robes. Unless she wants to be – or a citizen has dire need that blasts through the warding woven into the cuffs and collars – she won’t be noticed. “Miss Granger, I’m here on an official matter. Your expertise would be appreciated.”

Hermione blinks, brown eyes drifting over her slightly vacantly; Hari knows she is trying to figure out what’s wrong.

“…Madam Li,” Hermione calls out to her manager, failing at tucking an errant corkscrew curl behind her ear. Hari watches it bounce right back into place. “May I be excused?”

Madam Li, who heads the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, twitches at the prospect of losing track of the headstrong witch. “How long will you be borrowing her, Miss Potter?”

“Junior Auror Potter,” Hari corrects lightly, grimacing. “Several hours.”

“Will she be back after lunch?”

“I’ll make sure of it,” Hari nods.

Madam Li grumbles under her breath, acquiescing. Hermione is quick to enchant her belongings to follow her, satchel swinging on her shoulder. They make their way out of the department, quiet until they hit the lifts.

“So, what is it?” Hermione addresses her. “Or did you just sneak me out for no reason?”

“No, there _is_ a case,” Hari replies, shaking her head, “but it’s confidential. We have to talk in the office.”

“Alright,” Hermione says, suspicious. She straightens out her dark brown robes, the gold embroidery on her shoulders spelling _RFMBS_ shining delicately in the light. As Hari peers at it, the thread twists and turns until she’s reading _Rights For Magical Beings Society._

“Finally decided on the name, huh?”

Hermione glances at her shoulders, immediately brightening, “Yes! The RFMB Society is an official Ministry-based department, now and official membership only costs three knuts a month – all proceeds going to legal cases on behalf of magical creatures and beings and administration costs, of course.”

“I’ll be sure to join up. What’s happening with the Creatures Are Creatures protesters?” Hari then asks, twin grimaces being shared by the two witches as they exit the lifts, heading across Level Two towards the Auror Headquarters.

“I’d have thought you’d know more than me,” Hermione says, “but we _are_ being opposed, rather publicly at that. They’ve got a stall in Diagon Alley, handing out pamphlets that tell people how to challenge our existence. Luckily, the _Daily Prophet_ is less inclined to slander us on their behalf considering my position as Director.”

“Good,” Hari says roughly, linking arms with her best friend as they come up to the offices. “Hey, Marie.”

Marie Moody, current guard against people entering Auror HQ unauthorised and distant cousin of the infamous Mad-Eye Moody, a former Auror and late member of the Order of the Phoenix, brightens at the sight of Hari. Smiling, she offers a quiet _hello_ before giving Hermione a visitors list to sign, Hari adding her signature afterwards.

“Hari, before you go in-” Marie grabs her hand, passing her a small piece of folded parchment “-you should know, your class is going to be watched by some unfamiliar faces. Don’t panic or go straight to the Boss if you get paranoid.”

“Okay, thanks for telling me,” Hari says, face blank, not sure if she’s genuine or giving her some kind of warning. Tucking her hand in her pocket, Hari fingers the note, leading Hermione inside to the Junior Auror office.

“What was that?” Hermione murmurs, but Hari shakes her head minutely. Falling silent, the two enter the half-empty room, silencing wards at work. Ron and his team are absent, but Seamus and Vicky are both hard at work on each of the case files.

“Here,” Hari transfigures Hermione a chair, keeping a hand on her as they enter the boundary of the desk-wards. “Guys, got her.”

Seamus waves, “Hey, Hermione. How’s Regulation?”

“Getting bigger,” Hermione greets him. “Nice to see you again. Dean?”

“He’s good,” Seamus says quickly, before asking, “Did Hari tell you why we need your advice?”

“No,” Hermione replies, looking to her friend with narrowed eyes. It reminds Hari of Snape whenever the potions master was trying to figure out what the ‘golden trio’ were up to and frankly, Hari feels a little disgruntled that Hermione would levy such a look at her.

“Someone tried to bury a case, Miss Granger,” Vicky interjects, “but it’s been given to us. We’re not sure if it’s random or not, but if it isn’t, we’ve uncovered something… _interesting._ ”

“Hermione,” Hari attracts her attention, “this is confidential. The only time you can reveal what you learn here with us if a Wizengamot convenes.”

“What do you need me for?” Hermione asks, nodding in understanding.

“Here,” Seamus shows her the files he was pursuing – or rather, the illegal pictures. “You’re here unofficially, right now, but we’ll change that so you can cover your own tracks with other stuff.”

“What…” Hermione frowns deeply, forehead creasing as she looks at one of the photos occupied with a person. “Thorfinn Rowle?”

“Actually, it’s not, can’t be,” Hari says. “The dates coincide with times Thorfinn Rowle was reported elsewhere, mostly Azkaban and then in skirmishes with both Auror and Order forces.”

“Polyjuice?”

“A possibility,” Vicky shrugs, “but Severus Snape’s records only cover a small amount made for the Death Eater cause. The amount of times Rowle is in two places at once is extremely high.”

“Why do you need me, then?” Hermione questions, looking to Hari. “I’ve only made polyjuice potion _once_ and you were there with me, for most of it.”

“Actually,” Hari shifts, “we need to find the squib who took the pictures.”

“…how am I meant to do that?” Hermione asks, but her voice is reedy and high. “Hari-”

“Squibs, by law, are documented as magical beings,” Hari looks away. “You’ve got access to the register.”

“ _Hari,_ ” Hermione says, appalled. “I can’t do that! Not only is it _highly_ irregular, but it’s an invasion of their privacy!”

“We’ve got a street address,” Hari pleads, “you don’t even have to look at their names, if you can find the address first.”

“It’s not that simple. Most squibs live in the same area when they reside in magical locations,” Hermione shakes her head and her hands, still distressed. “Communal living is popular, especially among relatives. Magical families often put cousins all together in someone’s family property. But these pictures-” she waves her arm over the gathered photographs “-could have been taken from a magical property, if the squib themselves lives with their parents. If the owners are magical, the address is protected from view. Having a street-address _won’t help,_ Hari.”

Her words are revealing and Hari wilts at the loss of a lead. “Vicky, your case,” she says, wanting to redirect her friend, so she can have a moment to think.

“Right,” Vicky mutters, motioning Hermione over. “I’m looking to find the records of a vampire by the name of Vicario de la Mora. He had to go into a vampiric stasis after a life-threatening injury on Level Six, some twenty years ago. He’s holed up in a private property, somewhere in Yorkshire, scheduled to wake up another decade from now.”

“Oh, the poor man – vampiric stasis is dangerous,” Hermione says, still glancing at Hari. “I could certainly find his records, but I’d need due cause. If he’s dormant, we can’t exactly send a letter asking for his permission to release them, after all.”

“Well, he was particularly well-liked among the vampire community,” Vicky replies easily. “Vampires are required to have an emergency contact list of at least five different living people per century, but your own department has a cordon around the records in the Archive to keep those people safe.”

“For good reason. You know, there were at least fifteen separate murder cases revolving around viewed vampire casefiles before legislation barred public access,” Hermione sniffs, apparently miffed at the fact.

“Sounds terrible,” Hari says, wondering if it’s a good idea or not to just go ringing doorbells like muggle police. _Though, it wouldn’t keep our case very quiet. Could pretend there’s an art-thief on the loose. Photography’s a type of art, right?_

“If we had the list of people he was close to, then maybe we could question them. Time gives people a different perspective,” Vicky suggests.

“Hmm…” Hermione taps her chin in thought, “I’ll have a look. You should probably ask the old investigative team what they think, too. It might be an easier case to figure out than you think.”

Vicky’s expression twists into one of confusion. “Why? They couldn’t solve it then, why could they do it now?”

Hermione peers at her, eyebrow rising. “You’re quite young, aren’t you?”

“The class baby,” Hari says, leaning forwards to explain to Vicky where Hermione’s head is at. “She’s saying that the Aurors on your case might have been discriminatory. People still don’t really have any fondness for vampires or other creatures created from dark magic.”

“Meaning that they might have dropped the case on purpose, especially if the perpetrator was proven to be human and or of high standing in the magical world,” Hermione finishes.

“Oh,” Vicky says, obviously thinking quite hard. “Thank-you. I’ll have to check to see if they’re still around…”

“You’re welcome,” Hermione says, before swivelling around again to speak to Hari. “And about the squib person you’re looking for – you might do well to ask some of the Old Crowd. Arabella Figg worked for Dumbledore, so you already have a precedence set.”

 _Squib spies, working for the light,_ Hari thinks as she looks to the photographs. “You’re right. Thanks, ‘Mione.”

“It’s what friends are for,” Hermione says, faintly reprimanding.

“Friends stopping friends from invading people’s privacy?” Hari inquires.

“Exactly,” Hermione says, standing. “I’d better get back to work, then, if Madam Li expects me to sign out at the usual time for lunch. There’s a meeting this afternoon – I suppose that means I’m invited.”

“ _Director Granger_ probably is,” Hari grins. “Meet me and Ron at the cafeteria?”

“Ron and _I_ ,” Hermione corrects, before bestowing a short kiss on her cheek, leaving with her head held high. Hari watches her go, turning back to Seamus and Vicky when the door closes.

“I want to find out who lives on that street,” Hari says, determined. “The Rowle’s are purebloods – they all know each other.”

“Euphemia is from the main branch, too,” Seamus points out, to Hari’s surprise. At the look on her face, Seamus replies mildly, “I’m a half-blood. That doesn’t mean my family isn’t old. The Finnegan’s have been around for centuries.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it,” Hari replies, a little perturbed. “Why aren’t you all uppity, then?”

“Da’s a muggle,” Seamus replies, like it’s obvious…which it is, after a second. Flushing, Hari mumbles an apology, before Vicky nudges Hari with her foot under the desk.

“Uh…” she clears her throat, “you stood up for the Malfoy’s, right? They owe you more than a couple of favours, mustn’t they?”

Hari’s grimaces.

“Level Nine, here I come.”

The Department of Mysteries is one of the few places Hari hasn’t visited, since she first joined the Auror Corps. Her godfather died there when she was fifteen, falling through the Veil of Death when Bellatrix Lestrange cursed him. Similarly, Draco Malfoy hasn’t been up to Level Two, though his reasons are different from Hari’s. Because of this, they’ve never had a chance to meet in their shared workplace – though as soon as he joined the ranks of the Unspeakables, Hari was made aware, if only because she’s the Woman-Who-Conquered.

Arms crossed over her chest, fidgeting with wand in hand, Hari walks the cool, dark corridors of the DoM. Not sure where their offices are, Hari eventually decides to just stop and wait for a while…with zero results.

“It’s not like they’d survey their own corridors, not like us…” Hari sighs to herself, before deciding to try her luck at a patronus message. Summoning Prongs to the living world, she speaks calmly. “Malfoy, if you’ve got time, I’d like to speak with you. I’ll be near the lifts on Level Nine.”

Prongs, somehow knowing she needs that sent as a message, bounds off into the distance. It’s rather cool to watch, Prongs leaving behind a misty trail as he turns into a ball of light and rushes through a wall.

 _Lifts for me, then._ Hari makes her way to the lifts, not expecting Malfoy to already be there when she gets there.

“Uh, hi,” she says, not sure how to approach her ex-schoolyard nemesis. “Did I interrupt anything?”

“No,” he says shortly. “What do you need, Potter?”

“Information, if you have it,” Hari says, hovering awkwardly a few feet away. Not wanting an empty corridor at her back, she skirts around him, trying to keep her distance. “What do you know about the Rowle’s?”

“The Rowle’s?” Malfoy repeats, brow furrowing. “Purists, Death Eaters…what’s there to know?”

“There was some infighting of sorts made public,” Hari shrugs his question off. “Or not public. Auror business, I mean. Questions were raised. Is there anything specific that you know? Family members, addresses – would there be any neighbours that would know anything?”

“The Rowle family home is in Cornwall, but I’ve never been, personally,” Malfoy says, looking at her curiously. “Euphemia Rowle is the matriarch. My mother would know more.”

“Could I speak to her, then?” Hari questions.

“You’ll have to get an invite to tea, or that’ll never happen,” Malfoy says, blunt. He shakes his head, straightening the collar of his robes that are so dark a blue they seem black. “My mother is very strict about what kind of people are invited into her home.”

“And what if I invited her to mine, instead?” Hari questions – a query that seems to throw Malfoy off.

“You…have a _house?_ ”

“A flat, actually,” Hari corrects, “but if that offends your mother, I’m sure Sirius Black’s house will do. The only cursed artefact left to get rid of is the clock that spews knives.” _And the wards are under my control, completely and utterly, now that the broken Fidelius has stopped being an issue._

Malfoy looks scandalised, but somehow slightly impressed. “Invite her there and she’ll certainly consider it…there’s really a clock that spews _knives?_ ”

“You have to walk in a specific pattern to get past it safely, but I can never remember it,” Hari confesses, feeling strangely bare in front of the wizard before her. After the War and adult life…their school disputes don’t seem to matter. “We rounded up at least three boggarts from the house, too, over the years – Mrs Weasley couldn’t face the one she tried to banish. She kept seeing all her children dead and dying.”

Malfoy flinches, uneasy. “I admit, that’s…rather depressing.”

“Try _extremely._ ” Hari shakes her head, “Mums. You know, your mother lied to Voldemort straight to his face for you, after I told you that you were alive.”

“I beg your pardon?” Malfoy balks, only for the lift to open, admitting a pair of Unspeakables that they both move out of the way for. As they pass, the two offer _good afternoon_ s to Malfoy, who replies by rote. The silence left after them is telling. Eventually, he mutters “Write to my mother,” before stalking off into the dimly-lit Department of Mysteries.


	3. Chapter 3

“Mistress is having Miss Cissy for tea,” Kreacher repeats to himself over and over as he pours chamomile and offers Narcissa a three-tier stand of fresh scones, cakes and biscuits. Hari had been informed quite briskly by the house-elf that morning that cucumber sandwiches are to be served in spring, not autumn, to her disappointment.

Narcissa eyes the elderly elf with something like apprehension. “Have you thought about buying a younger house-elf?” she questions.

Hari plasters a false smile on her face. “Don’t mind Kreacher. He’s still in shock that I’m acting ‘respectably’. I’ve never had tea before.”

“Clearly,” Narcissa replies crisply. “I’d never have believed you would have the audacity to invite me into my former family townhouse for an acquaintance’s tea.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about. Please, educate me in the art of afternoon tea’s,” Hari invites her, unable to disguise her flippant tone. Hari has no intention of being schooled in the art of pureblood mannerisms.

Narcissa narrows her eyes. “I saved your life.”

“And I saved your skin later, when we won. I also saved your son from Fiendfyre. I think we’re past even on the scales of debt,” Hari bares her teeth in a facsimile of a smile. “I want your help with something.”

“What kind of ‘something’?”

“A pureblood _something_.” Hari admits, going to dig the file out from the drawer to her left when Narcissa raises a delicate finger.

“I want to have tea with you every Saturday afternoon for the foreseeable future.”

“What?” Hari pauses, hand freezing in mid-air.

“It does nothing for my reputation to give you information for nothing, let alone without a set tea to show for it. Even if you only agree to meet with me twice a month, _once_ – it is better than a single setting scandal.”

“Scandal?” Hari repeats, confused. “How is this scandal?”

Narcissa gives her a Look. “You want information, clearly, but I had to clear my schedule today to see you. Dahlia Brown is aware that I was coming here today. That rumour shall spread. If you suddenly raid the Rowle home in Cornwall, my reputation will be stained for the next eight months. Depending on what favours I can scrounge to avail the shunning, I may be booted from my ladies society and _that_ , I shall not allow.”

“I’m not planning on raiding the Rowle home,” Hari replies, baffled.

Narcissa stares at her. “Then what do you want, Lady Black?”

“Mrs Malfoy-”

“Madam Malfoy,” the older witch corrects. “As the matriarch of the Malfoy family until Draco’s wedding, I am a Madam. After Astoria takes my place, I shall be Mistress Malfoy. You may not be aware, but I am a Wardwitch. I hold a Mastery in my field.”

“…alright,” Hari mutters. “And it’s Auror Potter, not- not _Lady Black._ ”

“You were in Sirius Black’s Will as his heir. You’re Lady Black. I’ve been holding the Black Wizengamot Seats in trust since Lady Walburga passed. Unfortunately, the Potter’s weren’t… _matriarchal,_ ” Narcissa smiles with thin lips, brushing her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “You’re Lady Black until you pass on the title to your second child or first daughter.”

“This is not why I asked you here for tea,” Hari says faintly, shaking her head. _I’ve never heard of this stuff before – shouldn’t someone have mentioned it to me before this?_ “Alright, tea every fortnight, here in Number Twelve. I’m inviting your sister, though.”

“Andromeda probably can’t even remember how to have tea,” Narcissa dismisses, but she’s stiff as she looks away from her, ostensibly looking at the mural Luna painted during Number Twelve’s big redecoration last spring. It’s a moving piece of art over the fireplace, depicting her colourful garden, with Fawkes soaring through the sky above.

“Is it tea-appropriate for her grandson to join us? I haven’t seen Teddy in weeks,” Hari asks, freely admitting her lacking godmother skills.

“Nymphadora’s son.” Narcissa murmurs, almost to herself. “I never got to meet her, except when she was quite young, you know. Hm. Please, invite the both of them – it would be nice to see a young child. What information do you need, Lady Black?”

Uneasy at the title, Hari treads carefully. “We have reason to believe someone was using polyjuice to disguise themselves as Thorfinn Rowle to enter and exit Euphemia Rowle’s residence. It’s connected to a missing child case. I would like to know who lives on that street in an attempt to find the photographer; a list of those whom would have had access to Euphemia Rowle’s home; and anything you know about her daughter, Delphini.”

Narcissa’s eyes widen dramatically, full body recoiling in horror. “Delphini is _missing?_ ”

Hari frowns. “You know her?”

She watches Narcissa struggle for words, the woman picking up her tea with shaky hands, slowly regaining her composure. _She knows something,_ Hari realises, sitting forwards in her seat in apprehension and grabbing an empire biscuit to disguise her actions. Calmly, she watches her with unblinking eyes and munches on her biscuit. _Pressure at the right moment could make her spill._

Unfortunately, Hari has a feeling that Madam Malfoy won’t be so blasé about whatever her involvement with Delphini Rowle is.

“Is there any way to get you to tell me the full story, no lies?” Hari asks. It’s like she’s got a second sense for these things, sometimes. Narcissa looks at her under her lashes and to anyone else, it might look demure; to Hari, she just looks scared.

“She’s a little girl and she’s _missing_ , Lady Black. Are you more interested in the Rowle’s, or in Delphini?”

“Both. She takes priority, but the former investigators basically threw the case into the bin. We think it was on purpose.”

“It would be,” Narcissa confirms, chin tilting to the side gently, “depending on what they found out. Weekly teas may be necessary, rather than every fortnight. Please, if you would keep me up to date in this, I would be very grateful.”

“Why?” Hari pesters, leaning forwards, on the very edge of her seat. “Why should I?”

Narcissa flashes her a smile and it reminds her of Bellatrix, even in her fragility. “I have information you need but am not willing to give. I will conduct my own search for Delphini and if either of us finds her, then we shall inform the other. If _you_ do, then you will realise why you need me. If _I_ do, then I will need your cooperation so I can get custody.”

“Get _custody?_ Your husband was inner-circle and you think you can get custody of a baby?”

“Toddler,” Narcissa says tersely, eyes flashing. “She was born in nineteen ninety-eight.”

“A three year-old, then,” Hari corrects herself shortly. _Not a child, then,_ she thinks, wondering why the Rowle household hadn’t shown signs of her living there at all. The guestimate for how long it had been since a minor lived in the household had been somewhere between eight and fifteen years ago, when presumably, a teenager went to Hogwarts.

But surely a- a _what?_ A two year old? Surely a _two_ year-old would leave some kind of mark behind in the home. Dudley used to draw on the walls when he was little, blaming it on Hari – and magic would be able to tell, right?

Hari startles.

_Nineteen ninety-eight._

“How did you know she was born in ninety-eight?” she asks, perplexed. “Did you know her mother?”

“Yes, I did.” Narcissa answers, chin tilting upwards. “Her father, too.”

“And where is he in the picture?” Hari asks, finally removing the file from the side-table drawer. Taking out her wand, she casts the right privacy wards for the situation before opening the file and leafing through it. “There’s no record of him. For all intents and purposes, she only has Euphemia Rowle for a mother.”

“Not much of a good one, if she disposed of the girl,” Narcissa’s eyes flash, her voice cold.

“You think Madam Rowle abandoned her?” Hari clarifies.

“Indeed – or worse. The Rowle’s have a dubious history relating to their wards.”

 _But Delphini wouldn’t be a ward,_ Hari thinks, frowning. _She’d be a member of the family._ Making a note on Narcissa’s word choice using a pen and post-it note, Hari shuffles through the evidence, taking out the muggle photographs.

“Do you recognise the man in these pictures?”

Narcissa nods. “Thorfinn Rowle. You said this person is using polyjuice, however.”

“Thorfinn Rowle might have been one or two of these people, but otherwise, no – he’s documented elsewhere by the Ministry and or the Order of the Phoenix. Azkaban, battles, skirmishes…mostly Azkaban,” Hari shrugs. “Some, but not all of these are from before the Battle of Hogwarts. Your sister, Bellatrix Lestrange, is seen coming and going from the house once within the pictures.”

“Lucky,” Narcissa murmurs.

“Why _would_ she be at the Rowle’s?” Hari asks her, curious apart from her work. “Were they allies?”

“Somewhat. Lower-tier allies, only six out of twenty-three were marked by the Dark Lord.” Narcissa brushes non-existent crumbs from her lap. “Bella probably went there to ensure their monetary donations. Euphemia was a supporter, but far more strict when it came to opening her coin-purse, even for the cause.”

“I heard the Malfoy coffers are empty.”

“Not so.” Narcissa’s lip twitches. “I’m afraid our Swiss accounts were untouched during the war. They were gathering dust, of course – we truly had no idea how many galleons we had piled in there. A miracle of finances, to be sure.”

Hari snorts. “A nest egg, rather.” Narcissa smiles somewhat, then.

“Touché,” she murmurs.

* * *

“I think Narcissa Malfoy knows more than she’s letting on and I think Bellatrix Lestrange was involved,” Hari tells the rest of Team Cake.

Vicky gapes, while Seamus splutters around his butterbeer, coughing violently. Hari thumps him on the back a couple of times, before he regains his breath.

“Are you having a giggle, Potter? It’s a missing child case, not a conspiracy.”

“I had tea with her,” Hari continues, ignoring his argument. “She said some things that didn’t make sense. Who uses Bellatrix Lestrange to collect funds? She was too important – too volatile, even. I doubt Voldemort could use her to do anything that direct. She was mad.”

“Maybe.” Vicky’s expression twists and she looks like she’s going to say more when Captain Daffort clears his throat at the end of their combined desks. Hari quickly lowers the privacy charms, standing to attention.

“Sir,” she salutes in time with the others.

Daffort nods. “At ease. You’ll be joining the Senior Auror team on patrol in Diagon Alley, today. Get your duty robes on and leg it. Clark is expecting you in ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” they reply, gathering their papers and tidying their desks.

“I’ll go get our gear,” Seamus offers, Hari and Vicky vocalising their thanks as they head to the locker-rooms. Unisex, the locker-rooms are practically empty, only a few off-duty Aurors sitting on the benches chatting with their belongings, already in their civvies. One stands against the lockers, looking up at the sight of them and Hari’s instincts pat her on the back, singling them out apart from the rest.

“Crap,” she mutters though as she takes out her duty robes from her locker and sees the arms. “Why do they keep sewing them on? I keep telling Daffort, the elves are actively screwing with me.”

Vicky winces. “Maybe they think you deserve it.”

Hari sighs, rubbing the cross of wands over her Junior Auror stripe in gold. “What does it even mean? The handbook doesn’t mention it and when I ask our superiors, they just get all huffy at me.”

“Maybe it’s something you have to figure out for yourself,” Vicky advises, taking off her black tunic-jacket and replacing it with the Corps-provided dragonhide vest like Hari does. “For all you know, it could be something to do with progression. Maybe they’re singling you out.”

“Oh, I hope not,” Hari groans, eyes flickering sideways as she tugs on her red duty robes, buttoning them all the way to her shoulder. The Auror by the lockers is watching her. _They’re a squad-leader,_ she notes, _with eleven years of service. Merlin’s balls, that’s a lot._ Remembering what Marie said to her two days earlier about being watched, Hari lets it go – for now. If it happens again, she won’t hesitate to confront them.

“Come on,” Vicky says cheerfully when they’re finished dressing, heading towards the apparation point where Seamus waits with their gear. Thanking him again, Hari takes her belt and set of runestones, tucking them into the appropriate pockets to activate in an emergency.

“Clark, was it?” Seamus questions as they apparate to Diagon, moving in a triangular formation with Vicky at the front as they merge into the crowd, threaded rune notice-me-nots in their robes activating at their deliberate movements. Hari, as usual, ignores how they heat up uncomfortably against her wrists, the magic almost hot enough to burn. “Where do you think the man is?”

“Outside Knockturn, most likely. Clark’s a bit paranoid about dark creatures,” Vicky answers.

“Yeah,” Hari agrees, scanning for troublemakers, wand rising as she catches sight of a familiar pickpocket. “We’ve got a thief on the loose, guys – _oi! Dung!_ ” A silent _petrificus_ has him frozen in place and the three swamp the familiar wizard.

Mundungus’ eyes flicker from side to side, catching on Hari as she shakes her head. “ _Accio stolen goods,_ ” she flicks her wand, the potions ingredients flying out of his pockets to congregate in the air. “I thought you were under probation, Dung? Why ruin it? C’mon, mate. You’ve got no defence – I saw you.”

Under the _petrificus_ , Mundungus can’t reply, but it’s easy enough to dispel it as Seamus cuffs him, anti-apparation and anti-portkey wards activating with a click of the lock.

“Potter. Nice to see you again. What’s my punishment to be? A fine? Lock-up?”

“Lock-up,” Hari confirms. “I overheard your caseworker talking. You were on your last leg, Dung. Lock-up – until further notice.”

“Back to the Ministry with us, then,” Vicky mutters, irritated.

“We still need to report to Clark,” Hari shakes her head. “You two take Dung – do _not_ take your eyes off him. He’ll scarper as soon as he can and he’ll play dirty.”

“Oi, didn’t I help you, Potter? Didn’t I tell you where that locket ended up?” Mundungus starts to struggle, finally, trying to make a break for it. Hari, using some old-fashioned boxing, conks him in the nose. He sags to the ground and Seamus grabs him under the arms.

“That was during the War, prick and you’re lucky I didn’t press charges for ransacking my house, too.” Hari mutters, before jerking her head at him. “I’ll go see Clark. Get back to the Ministry.”

“Okay,” Vicky gives her a short grin, before glancing from side to side at the crowd forming. “Good luck with the fans.”

Hari looks up, realising that the crowd is, indeed, full of fans. “ _Shit_ ,” she says, right as a camera flashes.

“Hari Potter! Can you comment on Cormac McLaggen’s repeated insinuations that you’re sleeping together?”

Hari grimaces. “I’m working right now.”

“Hari! Hari!” A young witch squeezes between two older wizards, stumbling forwards to grab her robe. “Can I get your autograph please! _Please!_ ”

“Kid, I’m working right now,” Hari tries to let her down gently, peeling her hands off her robe. “I don’t sign autographs or- or do any celebrity stuff, okay? I just want to get to work, okay? So, if you just go back to your parents-”

“But all my friends don’t have your autograph and if _I_ get it, then they’ll like me better!” the girl exclaims, interrupting her just as a lumbering wizard comes pushing through the crowd. He grabs her, hauling her into the air – Hari notices they have the same square face and curly hair.

“I’m so sorry, Auror, she’s just excited.”

“It’s alright, but I really do need to get to work. I’m on duty right now.”

The wizard nods, his daughter squirming and screaming in his ear. “Going anywhere? I can clear a path?”

“Have you seen the other Aurors on duty?”

“Yes. They’re standing by the corner on Knockturn Alley.”

“Thank-you,” Hari replies, smiling professionally. “Though, not to knock Knockturn Alley, I believe I can make my own way there. No need to bring your daughter half a mile out of your way.”

“Oh, no trouble, Auror – and thank-you, for everything,” he says, kindly.

Hari gives a strained nod before making her way through the crowd. The reporters don’t disperse and many keep taking pictures. It’s a usual occurrence, if an annoying one. By the time she reaches Clark though, they’ve established a certain distance to her – she at least is afforded _that_ much, while on duty.

Commander-Auror Marcus Clark is a rather stodgy wizard with a large lip and a permanent wrinkle between his eyebrows. Ron usually makes jokes behind his back about his paranoid, Moody-like twitching that persists even off-duty and as Hari approaches, she gets an ugly feeling in her gut as his gaze flickers between Hari and her stalkers.

“Potter,” he mutters. “You’ve got friends.”

Hari fiddles with her wand. “You know how it is.”

Clark pierces her with a slight glare. “It isn’t conducive to Auror business, you know that, Potter. You think you can ride on your fame…” his voice dies down to a mutter, thankfully, but one of his patrol group slip out of Knockturn Alley and attract his attention.

“Sir, we’ve got some illegal vendors down here, just in sight of Diagon. Permission to survey them?”

Clark stomps forwards, tilting his chin as he looks down the alleyway. Hari doesn’t follow his gaze, instead looking to the crowd. The photographers keep on snapping pictures of her – _that’s a security risk for future Auror patrols,_ she thinks miserably – and Hari keeps on ignoring them. Still, her back straightens imperceptibly at the attention and maybe it’s how her gaze is hawking the general populace with a determination _not_ to look at the reporters, but she finds herself staring at a familiar face as it passes right in front of her.

 _Amos Diggory,_ she names the old man, mouth dry. Cedric’s face is fuzzy in her mind after so many years, but the dead-eyed glassiness of his eyes coupled with his father’s screaming will never leave her. The man is older, clearly, his thinning head of hair almost fully white. With how long wizards usually live, it makes Hari think the war took its toll; but by his side is a toddling child with dark hair, sucking on a sticky, scarlet blood-pop as he holds their other hand.

Hari steps forwards without really thinking about it, touching his arm. “Mr Diggory?” she addresses.

Amos startles slightly, blinking at her in confusion before his eyes flicker to her faded lightning-bolt scar. His face pales visibly.

“M-miss Potter,” he mumbles. “Lovely day.”

“Good morning, sir,” Hari says quietly. They stand there for a moment before Hari looks down at the child. “Who’s this?”

“This- this is my granddaughter,” Amos says and his words don’t make sense, because as far as Hari knows, Cedric Diggory was an only child. She stares at the child in confusion, crouching down, wondering if she’s older than she looks. She can’t be any older than four, at the most, but Hari will profess a lack of contact with kids other than Teddy – and in comparison to some of his peers, Teddy definitely doesn’t look his age, tall boy that he is.

_If she’s Cedric’s, she’s got to be at least…five? Six, even?_

“Hello?” Hari greets, her word almost a question. The child – the girl Diggory – lets go of Amos’ hand to clap it on Hari’s cheek, pudgy toddler hand moist and _small._ She’s got a bony face, but a bright smile and darker skin than Cedric had, silky black hair pulled in a ponytail on top of her head “What’s your name?”

“Fee!” the young girl exclaims. “Who you?”

“Auror Potter,” Hari replies promptly, before blinking at her mistake. What does a kid know about her fame? Amos Diggory wouldn’t be one to rave on about the Woman-Who-Conquered, not in the slightest.

“’Ror-Pot,” Fee repeats excitedly, missing half her consonants.

“It’s nice to meet you, Fee,” Hari pats the small hand on her face before looking up at Amos. “She’s nice, Mr Diggory.”

“Yes,” Amos sways slightly as he stares at her, before reaching out and grabbing Fee’s hand abruptly. “Must go,” he says shortly, blinking dazedly as he drags his granddaughter away.

Hari stands, heart hurting. _It wasn’t my fault,_ she thinks, chest filling with a familiar pain that reminds her of muggy evenings in Privet Drive and nightmares of a green light in a graveyard. A hand settles on her shoulder and Hari stiffens, looking to find Clark there, twitchy eyes looking back between her and the disappearing Amos.

“Didn’t know he had a granddaughter,” he grunts. “Come on,” the Auror says, tugging her back into the group. “No use bothering with a man who can’t get over the past. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, Potter.”

“Yes, sir,” Hari whispers, still feeling the headiness of guilt. She glances once more to the crowd in search of Amos and Fee, but they’ve gone, blurred into the masses of the Wizarding World in Diagon on a Monday.

Clark’s hand squeezes her shoulder once more before it drops. “Back to work.”

“Back to work,” Hari agrees, returning her focus to the mission, Clark going on to describe the patrol route she’d be taking with his squad that afternoon.

In the background, cameras click and flash without stopping.


	4. Chapter 4

“Paperwork is hell and I hate it. Everything has to be in triplicate, _bah._ ”

Hari nods along breezily, watching her warrants get signed off. Selma Veeci, Daffort’s second in command, grumbles under her breath as she dries the ink with a wave of her wand and floats the pile of parchment into Hari’s waiting hands.

“You remember the procedure for those?” the witch asks.

Hari nods. “Yes, Commander. I hand each copy to the person who answers the door and if they don’t answer, place it on the doorframe and enter: hoping to Merlin their wards aren’t powerful enough to disintegrate the warrant.”

Veeci eyes her carefully. “And the other copies?”

“One is left in the office file and one goes to Archives,” Hari replies promptly. Veeci nods in satisfaction before waving her arm dramatically.

“Leave me! I must finish this dratted _marking._ ”

Hari’s lip twitches. “Yes, sir.” Turning on her heel, she returns to her shared deskspace and hands the stack to Vicky, who glances over it before signing her part. Seamus, after returning with three teas and coffees, takes her quill to jot down his scribbling signature.

“Just you, now,” Seamus says in a chipper manner. Are we going down after lunch?”

“Yeah,” Hari confirms. “We’ll have our reds on.”

“Not our mixed?” Seamus frowns. “Thought this was a set of interviews?”

“It is, but I’d rather be prepared.”

“I think mixed would be a better idea,” Vicky interjects, passing the stack over on Seamus’ behalf. Hari gets to work as Vicky continues. “Our reds are in case of combat. Blacks are for office-work, like this. Mixed uniform is for this sort of situation.”

“It’s Death Eater territory.”

“We aren’t at war,” Vicky replies stubbornly, eyes glinting. “We’re co-heading this team, Potter. Unless you want to write up the extra five hundred words explaining to Daffort why the deliberate mistake in uniform, I believe we should follow protocol and wear mixed blacks and reds.”

Hari hesitates, imagining all the dark witches and wizards who might live in the area Narcissa had directed her to; but then she realises that Vicky is right. The war is over. These are just normal people – even if, most likely, one of them is a spy for the Light. So, nodding in shame, Hari finishes signing her part on the warrants and joins her team in heading to the locker room, swapping their black robes for their reds. They leave off their dragonhide with a shared look of agreement.

“Off we go, then?” Seamus grunts, before Hari enchants their portkey. They grab on, each feeling the familiar tug in their navel, fingers stuck like glue to the thick strand of rope.

Reappearing in a magical park, Hari is at first surprised by the sight of a playground, before recalling that the area is purely magical – no muggles allowed. Twisting slightly, she looks around the green, catching sight of several parents with their children, all dressed in robes; one child is even riding around on a tiny kid’s broomstick. Across the grass, Hari can see six quidditch goals and Hari briefly wonders if this could have been her life, growing up in a magical neighbourhood with other young witches and wizards to play kid’s pick-up quidditch with instead of playing _Hari Hunting_ in Little Whinging.

“Let’s not get distracted,” Vicky says, glancing at her. Hari shakes herself out of her thoughts, thinking she’s been rather reflective of late. The three of them walk towards the streets, avoiding the curious looks the parents in the park send them, going to the first door in the neighbourhood of gleaming grey townhouses.

A house-elf answers the door, dressed in a fine green pillow-case neatly sewn at the edges. They glance at them with wide, bulbous eyes, squeaking, “Mr and Misses Aurors, sir and misses. What can Flippy be doings for yous, today?”

Hari takes one of the warrants out of her robe pocket, crouching down to hand it over. “Flippy, we’re here today to talk to any and all available adults living in your household, today. Could I ask who lives here?”

“The Noble House of Fairbrook, Miss Auror,” Flippy takes the warrant with a shaky set of arms. “Flippy will be speaking to Master. Flippy asks you please waits in the parlour.”

“Thank-you, Flippy,” Hari says agreeably, standing up straight and entering, Vicky at her three and Seamus to her six. Flippy leads them inside the doorway to an open area, gesturing to a white and flower-patterned sofa by a sooty fireplace that obviously sees regular floo-travel. None of the Aurors sit, however, waiting for Flippy as they disappear with a soft _pop!_

“Fairbrook, never went to school with one of them,” Seamus mutters.

“I did,” Vicky replies, equally as quiet, looking around the parlour with stark interest. “Had no idea he lived in this sort of place.”

Flippy returns with another _pop_. “Master Fairbrook wills be meeting you in the kitchen with Master Davis, Mr and Misses Aurors.”

“Lead on,” Hari replies, following the house-elf further into the house, through a door and down a corridor and a single flight of stairs. The basement has the distinct smell of something cooking – but it doesn’t manage to cover up the smell of a burnt potion, coming from an ajar door they pass as they enter the kitchen.

At a long table, two older gentlemen sit with cups of tea and a newspaper, the warrant on the table and they would have looked quite ordinary, if not for the tiny monkey sat on the left-most wizard’s head. It croaks like a frog at their arrival and the wizard reaches up, taking the monkey off his pale blonde hair and handing it to Flippy.

“Take Max to his room,” the man instructs and Flippy scurries off, edging around Seamus as they exit the room. “Aurors – and is that Hari Potter? My, the world must be ending.”

“Not quite, sir,” Hari inclines her head. “Are you Mr Fairbrook?”

“Lord Fairbrook, if you please, Lady Black,” he says, smarmily. Hari’s smile becomes fixed.

“Of course. My apologies – though I prefer Auror Potter when I’m on duty.”

“Ah,” Fairbrook’s expression twists slightly, but he returns to his jovial mood easily enough. “I read the warrant, here. Questioning the neighbourhood, are we? What’s this all about?”

“Lord Fairbrook,” Vicky cuts in smoothly, stepping to join them at the table, taking up a chair while simultaneously placing their only photograph of Euphemia Rowle in front of him. Beside Hari, Seamus takes out a self-inking quill and a notepad. “Do you recognise this witch?”

Fairbrook blinks at the sight of it. “Pheme? Of course – she lives right next door! Or rather, she _did_.”

“Did? Can you clarify?” Vicky asks him.

The other wizard snorts. “She fled to her summer home in the Canaries after her cousin went up and accused her of killing her daughter. She never even had a daughter.”

Hari stares at the man, not even bothering to disguise her surprise. Vicky acts differently, remaining calm as she asks him another question.

“Davis, was it?”

“Chester Davis – my Tracey went to school with Lady Black,” Davis glances at her, winking. Hari gives an awkward grimace.

“I never really knew her,” she says, unable to even recall what House she was in. She has a funny feeling she had glasses and dark hair like this man – but that’s it.

“Mr Davis,” Vicky directs him back to the conversation, “Why would a woman claim her cousin killed a child she never had?”

“Because the boy died years ago, obviously,” Davis snorts again, Fairbrook leaning in and stage-whispering.

“Pheme-darling wasn’t very good at having children, unfortunately. Half of them died in the crib and the ones who lived grew up to be followers of the Dark Lord.”

“I see,” Vicky nods, taking the photograph back. “Mr Davis, Lord Fairbrook – thank-you for your time.” She stands, giving a respectful nod of her head as the men look at them in surprise.

“That’s it?” Fairbrook questions, startled. “That’s all?”

“This ain’t an inquisition, Fairbrook,” Seamus says.

Fairbrook looks disproportionately disappointed. “Oh,” he says. “Well- well, would you like dates? Names? I have very good records.”

“If you don’t mind,” Seamus says, all casual-like as he sets up in Vicky’s abandoned seat. Hari and Vicky drift to the doorway of the kitchen, exchanging a series of looks that amount to _What In Merlin’s Name Was That_ and _This Case Is Getting Stranger By The Minute._

They leave the Fairbrook household and dawdle before going to the next house, Hari hissing at her partners.

“Euphemia had a _son?_ ”

“Born and died in St Mungos, May of nineteen ninety,” Seamus says, peering at his notes and scratching at his hairline. “This is weird, Hari. Do we even have a birth certificate for this kid?”

“Delphini Rowle,” Hari mutters, “Born March eighth in the Rowle House, _here_.”

Vicky frowns, raising a hand. “Seamus, a woman of Euphemia Rowle’s calibre would have birthed at home, traditionally. If she had to go to St Mungos for her son’s birth, why would she stay at home for Delphini’s? Did Lord Fairbrook say anything about her other children.”

Seamus squints. “Not about St Mungos, but that’s an easy enough search through the Archives. I can put in a request for her children’s birth certificates. They’ll say whether they were born there or not.”

“Is that an important detail?” Hari asks Vicky, trying to divine her reasoning. Vicky is absurdly competent – but her leaps are not Hari’s to make, during investigations. They work through different logic.

Vicky explains it to her calmly. “If her son was the only child born in St Mungos, it’s irrelevant. However, if Euphemia Rowle required magical assistance during labour, then Delphini being born at home is strange in contrast. Why stay at home if her life is at risk?”

“ _Oh_ , you’re saying-” Hari says, eyes widening, “What if Euphemia Rowle wasn’t her mother at all?”

* * *

Each of the houses in the neighbourhood give similar answers, with varying degrees of cooperation. Some of their interviewees are reluctant – some try to ply Hari with afternoon tea. One memorable incident in the House of Karthagis, an elderly witch clearly under supervision by her daughter tried to brain Vicky with a vase, screaming that Euphemia was a dirty thief who stole her dress all the way to the Canaries.

That point – Euphemia’s escape to the Canaries – comes up often.

“No-one’s even home,” Hari mutters dubiously as they investigate the Rowle house, warrant stuck to the outer doorframe. They’d decided as a team to knock on the Rowle home last, after several hours of gossip from home busy-bodies and house-elves. “There are so many house-elves in this neighbourhood. How are there _none_ here?”

Seamus runs a hand across a dusty shelf holding several brass figures – a set of some kind, depicting topless witches. “They’d be cleaning, if they were.”

“I know,” Hari tests the edges of the warrant, standing at the bottom of the stairs. While they may be allowed into the house with the warrant, it only stretched across a single floor. She peers up into the gloom, starting at the sight of a pair of eyes. They disappear a moment later and she squawks. “Wait!”

“Hari?” Seamus exclaims, he and Vicky drawing their wands and Hari spins towards the sound of a loud _crack_.

A wizard, rather than a house-elf, greets them. Around his face is a pale pink mask that moulds to his face, giving him a featureless face and in his hands is an old, metallic camera – but he quickly holds it out for her to take.

“This is all I’m here for! That damn woman stole it from my brother!” he says, voice distorted and Hari’s wand slowly lowers.

“Are you…are you a burglar?”

“No- yes- well it’s _complicated,_ ” the wizard says, before clutching the camera to his stomach. “I looked at the warrant you gave my mum. The anti-apparation wards around the house were in stasis – anyone can get in, but no-one gets out.”

“You would have waited until we left, then got out,” Hari follows his logic, before jerking her wand upwards, wordlessly summoning the mask. It peels off, revealing him as one of the sons of a pair of witches they’d visited only two houses earlier: Ignatius Dyer. He still clutches at the camera. “What’s so special about it?” she asks as she hands over the mask to Seamus, who puts it in a warded bag for evidence.

The wizard traces the outer edge of the camera’s flash mechanism tenderly. “My- my brother, Cadmus, he was a squib. They cursed him during the war and it took a long time for- there was nothing they could do.”

Hari’s heart leaps in her chest. “He took pictures of Rowle.”

Ignatius looks at her, thick brow furrowing into one. “How’d you know?” he asks, suspicious.

“I believe we have his photographs in evidence,” Hari says slowly, thinking, _this is the spy_. “Cadmus Dyer. Squib…your brother, he’s dead, isn’t he?”

Ignatius nods miserably.

“We’ll be taking you into custody for breaking and entering, but you should get out on bail,” Vicky says, approaching him and holding out her hand. Ignatius passes her the camera, which gets given to Seamus like the mask. As Vicky gives him his rights, Hari thinks furiously, blurting out the most important question that comes to mind.

“Why did Euphemia Rowle take your brother’s camera?”

Ignatius meets her eyes and in that moment, Hari knows something isn’t right. Ignatius looks at her with a puzzled expression.

“Euphemia Rowle? No, she didn’t take it. Her cousin Walburga took Cadmus’ camera, after he took a picture of her in the park with Lady Rowle’s ward, Delphi.” Ignatius shakes his head, looking to his feet – oblivious to the confused glances Hari and her team exchange.

Taking him into custody and informing them they have need of him, Ignatius Dyer is placed in an interrogation room while Hari lays out all the things they’ve learned today in the adjacent room. Hari leaves the one-way wall transparent just so she can glare at him in frustration.

“If my head wasn’t so full of shit, I’d ask the old caseworkers to come in an explain why they did such a shit job on this.”

“Maybe they covered it up because they couldn’t tangle their brains around the hypocrisies,” Vicky offers from where she leans against a wall. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to discard a case because it was too difficult.”

Hari runs a hand through her hair, shaking it out. “Okay. Okay – Delphini Rowle. She definitely exists, because people have seen her, _know_ her. Do we have a picture?”

“No,” Seamus says, “not yet at least.” He looks at the developing sheets hanging up to dry in a corner, a spell making sure they don’t have to do it the muggle way. “If it was during daytime, they’d take the longest to show up – bright pictures do that.”

Fidgeting, Hari shifts around some pieces of parchment, staring at them with almost glazed eyes. All the evidence is there, staring her in the face. _It’s a conspiracy, for sure and the kid, meanwhile, is still missing. We should have more than just us on this._

“I think we should bring this to Daffort,” Hari says aloud.

Vicky snaps her neck to look at her. “Why? This is _our_ case,” she says, oddly defensive. “We can’t give this up.”

Hari blinks at her in puzzlement. “Who said anything about giving this up? We’re handling this case – we just need more people. Someone to liaison with the Aurors in the Canary Isles to track down Euphemia, someone to subpoena Walburga, someone to be in the Archives researching who knows what we might need to know that _isn’t_ Seamus – no offence, mate.”

“None taken, I’m up to my eyeballs in Archival Records,” he says, still staring at the developing photos.

Vicky purses her lips, pushing off the wall. “I’m going to get back to my other case,” she says. “I’ll finish it up quickly, if I can.”

“Arrange to meet the old caseworkers and witnesses in the next couple of afternoons – double-book, if you want one of us to help you get it done faster.”

Vicky flashes Hari a small smile, nodding as she leaves the room, door clicking shut behind her. Hari runs her hand through her hair again, plodding over to join Seamus.

“What do you think she looks like?” Hari asks randomly, wanting to sit down and relax, but knowing it’ll be impossible with all of this on her mind.

Seamus shrugs. “I don’t know. Pureblood kids are just like any others – fat, skinny, blonde, ginger. If she looks like Rowle, maybe we’ll be lucky. They’ve got hair like Malfoy’s.”

“Hmm…” Hari nods. “Go talk to Dyer, would you? I want to know everything he knows about the Rowle’s and what his brother was doing during the war – what he was doing, too.”

Seamus nods, glancing back at him through the wall. “Alright. You going to stare at these while I’m at it?”

“I’ll be watching you, don’t worry,” Hari grins at her own faux-threat and Seamus rolls his eyes before exiting the same way Vicky did, entering the interrogation room almost immediately after. Hari keeps an ear listening, though her mind drifts.

 _Everything was terrible, in the War,_ she thinks. The image of Cedric’s fuzzy face – his glassy eyes – drifts through her mind and she wonders at the existence of his daughter. _How_ could he have a daughter? It’s so strange. Cedric was a pillar of Hufflepuff goodness. Awkward, kind – Cho loved him dearly, even as a teenager. She cried over him. Hari can’t imagine him cheating on her.

“It doesn’t fit,” Hari mumbles to herself, talking as much about the Delphini case and as she is Amos Diggory’s granddaughter. She crosses her arms, restless as she stares at the developing photos. There are darker ones which have come in already, clearly of Thorfinn Rowle entering and exiting and a lighter one coming in depicts Euphemia and Walburga talking on the doorstep, clearly angry.

 _Did they not get on? Is this before or after she claimed Euphemia got rid of Delphini?_ Hari reaches up, looking at the still photo carefully. It hasn’t been through a potion yet, so body language is still up for debate – but even frozen, Hari can tell they’re arguing.

A knock comes from the door. Hari peers at it, calling out, “Come in.”

The door opens, admitting a familiar red-head. Ron glances between her and the transparent wall, where Seamus is questioning Ignatius about he and his brother’s alliances during the War, before entering proper.

“Hari, mate, you’ve been busy.”

“Yeah. What are you up to?”

Ron shrugs, still watching Ignatius’ interview. “Black market dragon trade. You know how it is. I think Daffort was having some fun with me – we’re tracking the eggs the Ironbelly laid, y’know, that dragon we flew out of Gringotts on?”

Hari snickers, Ron finally turning away from the one-way wall. “So, what are you here for?”

“Consultation, officially,” Ron says in a pompous manner, letting a grin slide onto his face afterwards. “Who do you think might benefit from taking the dragon eggs, Auror Potter?”

Hari pastes on a mask of seriousness. “We did steal it from the goblins, Auror Weasley. Might want to check in with Goblin Liaisons to make sure they’ve not gone and nicked ‘em for compensation.”

A scowl works its way onto Ron’s face. “Great. That’s probably why Daffort put me on this. I’m one of what, three people who know outside of non-disclosure’s that goblins keep dragons as vault guards. You mind if I use your stash of galleons in the flat for the next while? The goblins are going to give me bloody hell for this.”

“No problem, mate,” Hari shrugs. “Want to do a consult for me?”

“Go for it.”

“Great,” Hari says, chipper, waving her hand at the developing photos. “So, I’ve got a missing three year old who’s possibly been murdered, multiple people claiming her mother never had a kid in the first place, but proof she exists. The perp in the interview room had a squib brother who took photos of the Rowle house and caught an imposter in the skin of Thorfinn Rowle leaving the residence multiple times.”

Ron frowns at the photographs. “You talked to the street?”

“Every one of them, except Euphemia Rowle herself,” Hari says. “She took off to the Canaries after her cousin Walburga brought the case to the Corps. She withdrew the charges later. Euphemia was already off to the Canaries by then, apparently.”

“Right,” Ron says and Hari helpfully leads him to the stack of notes from their warranted interviews earlier. He shifts through the parchment as Hari talks.

“I had tea with Narcissa Malfoy to get the right address. She knows Delphini, apparently – but check this,” Hari says, “she tries to cover for why Bellatrix Lestrange would be at the Rowle house in the middle of the war by saying she was probably acting as an enforcer to get funds.”

Her best friend makes a face.

“Exactly,” Hari says to his reaction. “The whole case was thrown out the window, we think. They discovered something off. We’ve got a running theory that Euphemia Rowle isn’t actually Delphini’s mother, though.”

“Maybe they were in on it together,” Ron suggests. “Walburga and Euphemia Rowle, that is. She gets charges drawn up, Euphemia has the excuse to leave the country while Walburga is free to do as she likes. She could have gotten rid of the kid herself.”

“Doesn’t explain Bellatrix. Delphini would have been a newborn at the time.”

A silence fills the room. Ron and Hari exchange a horrified glance.

“What if-”

“ _No_ , no fucking way-”

“Hari, it’s just an idea-”

“ _She is not Bellatrix’s daughter!_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Auror Chain of Command, based on the UK Royal Navy and British Army ranking system, for the Wizarding World UK Auror Corps:
> 
> Junior Auror*  
> Petty Auror  
> ~Warrant Auror 2nd Class ("W.A. 2nd")*  
> ~Warrant Auror 1st Class ("W.A. 1st")*  
> Sublieutenant Auror  
> Lieutenant Auror  
> Lieutenant-Commander Auror  
> Commander Auror ("Auror-Commander")  
> Captain Auror ("Auror-Captain")  
> ~Brigadier Auror ("Brig 2nd")*  
> ~Brigadier-General Auror ("Brig 1st")*  
> Lieutenant-General Auror  
> General Auror (”Auror-General”)  
> Chief General Auror of the Auror Corps
> 
> *Junior Aurors are still in the Auror Academy: therefore, they have two minor ranks between them as they aren’t officially Ranked Aurors. These two minor ranks are First Class and Second Class, denoting how many years they’ve been in the Academy; this system differs from W.A. and Brig., where 1st Class and 2nd Class denote rank in order of professionalism, where 1st is best.
> 
> *If you skip W.A. 2nd or Brig 2nd, you cannot ever make General Auror
> 
> *If you skip W.A. 1st or Brig 1st, you cannot ever make Chief General Auror
> 
> -
> 
> Headcanons:
> 
> \- Alastair Moody made it to Brigadier-General Auror before being forced to retire.
> 
> \- Amelia Bones went through Warrant Auror training, but not Brig.; this let her advance to General Auror before she became the face of the DMLE.
> 
> \- Nymphadora Tonks was a Lieutenant under Moody specialising in undercover operations; she would have been recruited to the British Magical Security Force [BMSF] as a Hit-Witch, had she not died and the war not changed things.
> 
> \- Kingsley Shacklebolt got recruited into the BMSF after gaining his status as a Warrant Auror, 1st Class.


End file.
